Chapter 35: Our School Sheriff
Chapter 35: Our School Sheriff
Clatter—
Removing the engine was over in no time.
After taking out every bolt securing the engine to the chassis, I attached the hoist chains and slowly lifted it free.
Then all I had to do was place it in the truck bed on top of the padding I had laid down and tighten the straps so it would not move.
The entire process took a little over an hour.
“Well, well… You got that out pretty fast. Looks like you know what you’re doing.”
Joe, who had been sitting in a folding chair in front of the office, stood when he saw me.
“You didn’t hide anything else in there, did you?”
He glanced over the truck bed and cab. It was only a formality, however, and he did not conduct a serious search.
After I finished loading the transmission as well, Joe rubbed the short beard on his chin and said, “A thousand dollars for the engine long block and transmission together.”
He did not touch a calculator or consult a parts-price list.
That was understandable. Parts at salvage yards like this did not have fixed market prices.
The types and condition of the attached components varied widely, and prices fluctuated depending on stock and demand.
“Make it eight hundred fifty.”
That was why the first thing to do was bargain.
“What? That might have been enough before, but these parts are scarce now. Nine hundred fifty. I won’t go lower.”
“I’ll give you nine hundred in cash. Right now.”
“For crying out loud, this place is cash-only anyway, so what are you talking about…? Fine. We’ll do that. Somehow, young people are scarier these days.”
The man slowly shook his head, yet snatched the cash from my hand in an instant.
“Thank you. I’ll be coming here often.”
Joe answered with a dismissive snort, but he did not seem to genuinely dislike the idea.
Local people in rural Arizona all had something similar about them. They appeared prickly on the outside, but once you got to know them, they had their own kind of warmth.
They did not make a grand display of it like the Southern hospitality associated with Texas, but this more understated manner suited me better.
Without even saying goodbye, Joe dropped back into his old folding chair and sipped the liquid in his flask.
“Ah… right. Joe, do you know someone named Steven? He works at Hutchins Vintage Auto Parts.”
I had been about to climb into the truck when a thought occurred to me, so I turned around and asked.
“That arrogant bastard? Of course I know him. Why?”
“He’s actually the one who told me about this place.”
“Ha! I knew it…. When you see him, tell him he won’t get a damn thing next time if he keeps bargaining like that. The same goes for you! I might start quoting you both double from now on.”
So that was it….
Just how much had Steven haggled him down?
Though I was hardly in a position to criticize.
“Haha. Then I look forward to doing business with you again.”
“Tch….”
Joe apparently became angrier the more he thought about it, because he continued grumbling long after I started walking back toward the truck.
Still, I liked the salvage yard quite a bit.
The pull-and-pay system kept the prices reasonable, the selection of parts was plentiful, and I had seen many cars scattered around that looked like hidden treasures.
There were quite a few tempting ones, even at a glance.
It was also close to my warehouse. It might not be a bad idea to find a future restoration project here.
The moment I drove out of the salvage yard, I called Steven.
“Oh, Jason! I was about to call you. The parts for the Rambler should all arrive by the day after tomorrow.”
“What a coincidence. I just got the engine and transmission too. Then let’s meet at my warehouse the day after tomorrow.”
“Okay! We’re finally starting. Hehehe, this is getting exciting.”
“You’re not coming over to play. Come prepared to work.”
I quickly ended the call before it could drag on.
Friday evening, after every required part had arrived.
My warehouse, which had been peaceful with only Dusty and me, became noisy again after just a few days.
“Jason, eat some pizza before you start! This one is a masterpiece.”
Jack held up a massive slice of pizza almost as large as his face.
“He’s right. It doesn’t even compare to the pizza Steven brought from his neighborhood last time.”
Cole immediately agreed.
Every time they visited the warehouse, they brought pizza from what they considered the best shop in their neighborhood and ranked them against each other.
It was a little game they had started without permission on the very first day they came over.
“Damn it…. Just wait. I’ll find an even better place next time.”
Steven bit his lip in frustration.
None of them owned the pizza shops, so I could not understand how they managed to compete so sincerely or become genuinely upset about it.
Besides, my attention was not on the pizza Jack had brought.
It was on the gleaming mass of metal in front of me.
The Jeep 4.0-liter engine block that would become the Rambler’s new heart rested on the workbench.
We were about to install the long-stroke crankshaft that formed the core of the stroker build.
All the information I needed was already present in my mind, but their constant chatter kept distracting me.
Haa. Maybe I should have done all of this alone instead of calling them.
I had asked for their help because the schedule would be tight once the physical modifications and test drives were taken into account.
Apparently, that had been a mistake.
Tap, tap—
Something light and soft brushed against my calf.
It was Dusty’s tail.
“Hm? Dusty, what is it?”
The little guy looked as though he had something to tell me, then turned his head in the opposite direction.
Steven was standing there, having approached without my noticing, holding a Coors beer and a plate of pizza.
“Here.”
He handed me the cold bottle, beads of condensation covering its surface.
“Drink while you work. Eat some pizza too. I hate to admit it, but Jack really did find a good place.”
Instead of replying, I accepted the bottle.
Gulp, gulp—
“Haa….”
The sharp carbonation scraped down my throat as the coldness spread through my entire body.
Then I took a bite of the pizza he kept holding out.
It was typical American-style pizza, the salty pepperoni mixing with rich cheese, although the crust was better than the last one.
“Yeah. This one is definitely better.”
“Hehehe, then that means I’ve got one win, right? Yes!”
Jack had somehow appeared beside us and struck a victorious pose with one fist raised.
“Doesn’t Jason make beer look way too good? It almost makes me wonder whether he’s drinking something different from us.”
Cole alternated his gaze between the bottle in his hand and mine.
“You should see this bastard eat buffalo wings. It looks like a television commercial. Ah! But he makes fried pickles look absolutely disgusting. Damn it… Why…?”
Steven added from beside him.
“Steven…. I haven’t said anything until now, but honestly, I don’t think fried pickles taste particularly good either.”
“What…? Cole, what the hell are you saying? Are you already drunk after one beer?”
Once Cole joined the fried-pickle debate, the two began arguing loudly.
“Jason. This goes in next, right?”
Amid the commotion, Jack put on gloves and approached the workbench.
“Huh? Yeah, that’s right. But first, we need to make sure the cylinder walls are properly lubricated and that the piston rings are seated correctly.”
“Heh. I know, so stop looking at me like that. I’ve done a fair amount of work on my own cars. I’ve overhauled an engine a couple of times too.”
Jack lightly smiled as he picked up the piston-ring compressor.
“I used to think you were incredibly arrogant. Back in high school.”
His hands continued working as he spoke quietly.
“You never greeted us. You acted like we didn’t exist, and your glare was vicious…. Did you know there were a lot of guys at school who couldn’t stand you?”
That was probably true.
No, there was probably no one who thought well of me.
At school, I had been a complete loner, partly by choice and partly not.
“But the funny thing is, anyone who actually tried to pick a fight with you always got dragged away by Steven. Steven didn’t particularly like you either, of course, but that bastard acted like he was the school sheriff or something. It’s ridiculous even now. Hehehe.”
This was the first time I had heard about it.
I had often seen Steven bossing the other students around, but I had never known he did things like that behind my back.
“Heh. He really is a strange bastard….”
A brief laugh escaped me before I realized it.
“Not just a little strange. He’s extremely strange. Hehehe.”
Jack chuckled quietly after hearing me.
“What? What’s so funny? Tell me too.”
Apparently, the debate had ended, because Steven inserted himself into our conversation.
“Nothing. More importantly, you two should start on the Rambler’s suspension. Jack and I will handle the engine and transmission.”
“Hmm. Suspicious…. Anyway, got it. I just install this reinforced axle in the rear end, right?”
Steven rummaged among the suspension parts in the corner as he asked.
“Yeah. It’s a Ford 8.8, so you’re probably familiar with it. It’s only been shortened to fit the Rambler. You know how to operate the lift, right? Don’t forget to engage the safety locks after raising it.”
“Okay. Cole, get over here and help me.”
Click, click, click—
The three men who had been eating pizza, laughing, and talking just moments earlier were suddenly all focused on their work.
I still could not understand what pattern governed their behavior.
“By the way, Jason, can we really beat Cyrus’s Charger with this much power? His car has a massive supercharger. This is still naturally aspirated.”
Cole casually raised the question while working.
My hand stopped as I tightened a cylinder-head bolt.
Steven’s and Jack’s hands stopped as well.
Can we actually win?
It was the ultimate question shared by everyone who entered a race.
My answer was brief and firm.
“We will.”
I resumed moving the ratchet and continued.
“We’ll probably dominate through the first half, about two hundred meters. The Rambler will leap forward before that heavy thing of his even begins to move.”
“That’s true, but what comes afterward is the problem. The closer we get to the finish line, the more the advantage from the launch will disappear….”
Steven added with a serious expression.
Whenever he casually made remarks like that, it became obvious that he had considerable drag-racing experience.
The setup on the Mustang he drove last time also suggested as much.
Strangely, however, he seemed reluctant to talk about his own drag racing.
I did not bother prying.
“Then the key is how large a lead we can establish before crossing the halfway point.”
“Exactly.”
After answering Cole, I looked at the Rambler’s small, charming body.
The fluorescent lights flowed smoothly across its old paint.
“That’s why… we’re going to strip out the entire interior.”
“…Huh? Strip everything out? Jason, you never mentioned that. What exactly do you mean by everything?”
Jack stopped working on the engine and turned toward me with a startled expression.
“Everything except the driver’s seat. The passenger seat, rear seats, air-conditioning system, audio equipment, and even the sound-deadening material beneath the carpet. We’ll scrape it all out. Anything that can reduce the weight by even a single pound.”
“Ha… hahaha…. My Rambler…. I guess I’m not using it as a daily driver anymore….”
Jack laughed hollowly like a man losing his mind.
“But Jack, think about it. Do you really believe Cyrus, a man so obsessed with looking cool that he wears sunglasses in the middle of the night, could bring himself to cut that much out of his own car? Almost certainly not.”
“That’s true…. He’s probably focused entirely on increasing power even now….”
Jack answered with resignation.
“Trust me this once. The moment you cross the finish line, I’ll make sure you don’t even think about comfortable options or decorations.”